Flip, the Motorola Razr flip-phone, lays snapped in two on Paul's thin, scarlet carpet, it's face separated from its keyboard by an arm's length. "This can't be happening," Flip cries, silently. "You wouldn't have. You couldn't have." Flip watches Paul pace cyclically around his bedroom. He smashes things. He stomps against the ground. He screams, shouts, sobs. "This can't be. Pauly. This can't be happening."
Paul growls endlessly though his teeth about all of the money, all of those drinks, all of those years. Beneath his breath, he is saying, "Her, her, her. I don't believe her. How can she not love me? I don't believe her."
"Pauly? Help me. I don't understand. Why have you--"
"How could she have--"
"--done this to me?!"